Burned Ice
by fairlies
Summary: Newsies are in danger of being extinct with the newly made Paperboys from the Worker's Bugle. In order to save themselves, they kidnap Turner Bedell's prized jewell; his daughter Linnie, in a last ditch attempt to stop him.
1. The Docks

Keeping my breathing fluid, I hurried past the houses. Not caring if they landed at the steps or not, I threw my papers. Looking behind me, I could see the newsies catching up to me. _Damn._ I thought. I couldn't hold myself in a fight with Brooklyn newsies. Racing down the streets of Brooklyn, my shoes clacked on the cobblestones. Buttoning my navy jacket one more button, I breathed in short puffs. It was extremely cold, and I could feel the lack of warmth on my neck.

_Maybe this was a bad idea._ The newsies didn't like newsboys; they stole business. Paperboys sold straight to the houses of families, making it an expanding business. The owner of the _Workers Bugle_ had thought up the idea, and sends newsboys all over Brooklyn. _Just my luck, to get Brooklyn._ Holding my white messenger bag closer, I buttoned the top to keep my papers from falling out. Increasing my speed, I raced past food vendors, going into the less populated area of Brooklyn. _The docks._I could lose them there.

Checking behind me, I noticed that they had closed in on me. Trying to give myself more distance, I weaved in and out of the crates. Pounding my feet against the ground, hollow noises followed me as I ran. An ache started to form in my side; cramps always came before I ran out of energy to run. Praying that I could make it out of the docks, I sidestepped a boy that got in my way. A harsh hand grabbed my wrist and the momentum carried my legs from under me. Cursing, I looked up to see that I had overlooked the fact that I was passing a newsie.

By the time all the boys had caught up with me, I was already detained by two newsies; one with an eyepatch, and the other trying to cradle a cigar in his mouth. Gagging, I wished someone else had caught me; smoke was getting in my lungs. The boys in front of me parted ways so that a tall young man could come through. He was wearing a bandana around his neck, and by the looks of it, a cowboy hat too. I heard of these newsies; but they were from Manhattan. What were they doing in Brooklyn. The young man, Jack Kelly by the looks of it, said,

"Soak 'em"

The others obliged, some wearing a giddy look on their faces. As the other two held me back, one newsie pounded my face. Ignoring the pain from the shiner on my cheek, I concentrated on not crying. _They probably don't know. _ Unable to do much, I kept quiet and tried to ignore my situation. It always helped me keep my calm whenever I felt like breaking. A stinging became profound in my cheek, the pain away. Egging the newsie on, I gave him a half-hearted smirk.

Another shiner was added to my collection. Biting the insides of my cheeks, I turned to the side to try and air out my tears. But a hand intercepted the next punch; it belonged to the newsie that was smoking. A chorus of, "Whatch ya do that for Racetrack?" sounded through the air. Pushing the fist down, Racetrack, as his friends called him, said while shaking his head,

"Shouldn't we bring 'em to Spot?"

Searching my head, I tried to remember whether or not I had heard of this Spot character. My mind ended up with nothing but the fact that he was part of the strike too. Murmurs rippled through the group, and Jack seemed to change his mind. A childish smile formed on his lips, and he sounded like he had done the funniest thing in the world; Kelly put my mind at ease saying,

"What are you boys talking about, Spot's already here."

Turning around, Jack faced the docks and yelled for Spot. A couple of harsh looking Brooklyn newsies groggily got out of the water, and a few scowled because they had been woken up. The circle around me grew bigger; mixing with Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies alike. A couple had come running from point blank, stating that Spot was on his way. Looking to both my sides, which were teeming with boys, I tried to find an escape route. _It won't be long until they find out._

Thinking quick, I noticed that the grasp on my hands were loose. Without Race to hold me down too, the other boy was caught off-guard. Stepping on his foot roughly, I heard him curse in pain. Wrenching my hands from his grasp, I curled my hand into a fist and punched him in the face. Happy that I had missed his nose and instead hit his soft cheek, I saw him recoil in shock; I couldn't really hit that hard. _ Not bad for someone who can't fight; and escape artist is more my occupation._ Instead of brawling it out in a fight I would without a doubt lose, I lithely moved around the newsie. What really surprised and bothered me was the fact that the others weren't trying to stop me. _As if they know I won't escape._

Not really caring whether or not they moved, I pushed past them. Forgetting about my messenger bag, I threw it on the ground. Flinching inwardly, I thought wryly, _I could almost feel the impending punishment for doing that. _I was so busy trying to flee the scene that I almost missed the tapping. The slightest tick, then tack. It almost sounded like a... a cane. Curiosity etched my features, and I unconsciously turned around. My mind went blank as I forget what was happening and where I was. All I could feel was utter fear.

A dirty blonde boy stood in front of me, leaning slightly and non-nonchalantly on a gold-tipped cane. His hair was covered by gray knit newsie hat. His skin was pale and had patches of ink; but he looked built and his silhouette suggested muscle. He had rolled up the sleeves on his light blue-gray collared button up shirt. Red suspenders held up dark brown trousers, and black shoes covered his feet.

I have been told before that I have the most thoughtful, lively and expressive dark green eyes; as if they knew how I was feeling more than I did. But this young man, his clouded-blue eyes were cold; and reminded me very much of locked doors. All his emotions were locked away behind his eyes, leaving them lifeless. Around his neck was a key, which I believed symbolized that he alone held domain over his thoughts and expressions. A sling-shot was looped in his brown belt, and looked poised for battle. His face held a superior smirk, and his nose was upturned.

"Where you'se goin?"

Taking a sharp breath, I looked behind me; the other newsies had came to their senses and formed a circle around me and the boy. _That means no escape, unless I fight._ I eyed his cane warily; I wouldn't win if he had that on hand. But the chances of me winning anyways were slim; I had little to none fighting skills, while the newsie was sure to have practice. Unable to stop feeling cowardly, I tried in vain to make myself look more confident; rolling my hands into fists. _If I could just land a few hits, maybe I could daze him and make a run for it. _Wishing I still had my bag so that I could swing it at him, I glared at the boy.

Superiority radiated off him and smugness emanated from him. His utter confidence annoyed me to no end, his cocky smirk still in place. Watching his eyes flick towards my fists for a second, they turned a steely grey. But the indignant look was soon replaced by mirth; he probably thought me fighting him was a humorous idea. I must have looked silly, a small kid ready to fight the taller, yet still short, young newsie. His voice sliced the silence in half, snapping slightly,

"I'se asked you'se a question."

Taking time to think of an answer, I meekly stated questionably,

"And I'm not answering it?"

Ignoring the annoyed and warning look on his face, I swallowed back my fear. _I have to get out of here. _Twitching my fingers, I fought the urge to nervously wring my hands. _This guy is freaking me out._ The stormy eyed boy took a step towards me, and said in a more serious tone,

"Who you'se think you'se talkin' to? Yoah muddah?"

But the question was rhetorical, and I did not reply. Something told me that if I continued to press buttons, I would be wishing I hadn't. Closing my mouth, instead I narrowed my eyes at him. But unperturbed, he continued,

"Yoah talkin' to the one an only, Spot Conlon."

Remembering the name being brought up before, I wondered who exactly the young man was. Speaking quietly to myself, I muttered,

"Why does everyone keep saying that name?" Waving my hands around to stress my frustration, I continued, "You even have Turner Bede-"

Stopping myself just in time, my eyes widened in surprise, as I realized the information I was divulging. _At least I didn't say everything._ Looking at Spot, I noticed his eyes looked probing, and his face was curious and intrigued. Jack Kelly joined back in our conversation, asking,

"Do you'se mean Turner Bedell, as in da _Worker's Bugle_?"

Race cut in sarcastically with his Italian accent,

"Da man dat's tryin' to run us newsies outta town, the one and only?"

"Who are you'se? You ain't one of 'is stooges. Otherwise, you'se wouldn't know dis stuff."

Spot questioned suspiciously.

Biting my lip, I inwardly let out a sigh of relief; _at least they don't know who I am. _Leaning back and forth on both feet, I nervously tried to counter his question. Ignoring their questions, I stated with little confidence,

"You haven't answered my question."

Spot retorted with my own words saying,

"I'se ain't gonna answer it."

Not likeing how he turned my words against me, I rudely replied,

"Then your not getting anything out of me."

In a flash he was up in my face. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion, as he reached to grab my shirt to pull me up to his height. In the second his hand moved, I pushed him away and said shrilly,

"Don't touch me!"

Surprise was etched in his face at my change in tone; I had slipped up. Standing in a position similar to a frightened cat, I felt myself quietly growl. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up, and goosebumps covered my skin. Spot seemed to be processing what had just happened, and I could tell he was already putting the pieces together.

To help speed up the process, I took off my tan hat, revealing wavy hair. It was a strawberry blonde color; contrasting my sun-kissed clear skin. Placing it firmly on my head, I kept my hair down; it tickled my neck. Placing my tanned hands on my hips, I leaned forward on the tips of my feet. Knowing I had caught them all by suprise, I stated calmly,

"I don't want you to get your ink riddled hands on me."

Spot was the quickest to recover; Jack Kelly was muttering about how, "You'se should nevah trust a dame", and Racetrack was still in shock, rubbing his eyes and stating, "You'se just punched a goil, Mush.". But Spot just bowed, saying,

"I'se believe it's customary ta introduce yoahself when in a dame's presence."

Bringing self up in a mocking manner, he stuck out his dirty hand and continued,

"Name's Spot Conlon, King of da Brooklyn Newsies."

In an effort to seem polite, I reached out my hand and commented,

"I don't quite remember my name right about now, sorry."

But before my hand reached his, he spit a good amount of saliva into his hand. Stopping myself from scowling, I gathered up some spit for my own hand; I had no intentions of making them think I was a girly-girly. Ignoring the squelching sound that came when we shook hands, I was interrupted by Spot's voice.

"That's okay, Miss Linnie Bedell."


	2. The Lodging House

The Brooklyn king had let me go, giving me back to Race. Instead of holding my hands behind my back, Racetrack threw me over his shoulder. Spot was walking behind him, and with venom in my voice, I asked,

"How did you know?"

Passing the docks, I spotted my bag. Spot, who had caught my wandering eyes, grabbed it. Opening it, he looked at the contents; _Worker's Bugle_ newspapers. Taking one out, he tucked it under his arm, and resumed holding his cane. With a cocky smirk, he replied,

" I have an inside guy."

Opening my mouth to ask who, he cut me off. Taking the paper while simountainously walking forward, he leafed through the pages. Folding the paper in half, he pointed at a picture.

"The _Worker's Bugle _of course. Aftah beatin' up a papahboy, I stole 'is papes. They'se had an ahticle 'bout you'se and yoah pops. There must not be good news out 'cause they keeps printin' the same thing."

Cursing, I inwardly told my father, _I told you so._ I had begged him not to print the article about his "innovation". He had pridefully went to tell the press how he intended to make paperboys a continental trend. He brought me along to appeal to housewives and young boys. But I wasn't about to give up just yet. Giving little thought to what I was saying, desperatly I stated,

"I might look like that girl, but their is no proof it's me. Why would that girl's father employ her anyways?"

But Spot could see through my white lie. Taking the picture in his hands, he pointed to the girl's neck.

"I'se thought about dat. Right before I was goin' to punch yoah lights out, you stepped outta my way. Just enough time to see the Bedell crest on yoah necklace."

Ignoring the fact that he had succesfully paried me, I thought about my necklace. Silver ivy vines encircled a bronze deer, its fur plated in gold. It laid underneath my button up peach blouse and navy coat. I had buttoned my shirt all the way, and wrapped my coat around me. Gasping in disgust, I shrieked,

"You looked down my shirt?"

All the boys that surrounded me stopped at that comment. Turning red, out of embarrassment, I heard Racetrack mumble,

"Spot's known fah doin' much moah dan dat."

Now wanting to escape more than ever, I kicked Racetrack in the head, and punched his back. My hits were feeble and my hands shaky. After swearing out loud, Race let me go and rubbed his head. Thankful to be let down, I turned to run. But surrounding me were newsies, most of them roughly built. Though they had no intention of letting me escape, I came to question why they had released my restraints. My answer lay ahead of me; The Boy's Boarding House. Jack Kelly had emerged from the mass of bodies, and nudged me forward, cautious to touch me as if I would break. Scowling outwardly, I entered the building.

Inside was an old man, who seemed to be busy sweeping the floor. His eyes left the floor and turned towards me, scanning the newsies first. As if accostumed to this, he asked,

"She paying?"

Spot shrugged and threw the man a coin, which he caught with expertise. My jaw popped open, and my eyes held shock. Lifting up my eyebrows, I looked at the wrinkled old man; _isn't he going to stop them? _Wanting to snap the broom he held in half, I pointed out,

"Hello? Sir, I just wanted to tell you that there is a _young girl_ being _kidnapped_ by a bunch of hormonal-teenage boys."

Shrugging his shoulders, he replied non-chalantly,

"As long as they pay the rent, I don't know you, I didn't see you and I have no idea what's happening."

Hissing at the elder, I forgot all that my mother had taught me about being polite to seniors,

"You sold me out for a _penny_!"

Not bothering to answer me this time, the old man moved from his spot on the floor, and went behind the counter next to the wall. Shifting his glasses to the bridge of his nose, he stared in scrutiny at Spot and Jack. Saying in a expecting voice to them both,

"You boys don't try anything," adding an all-knowing sigh, "I hate waking up to screaming."

Glaring openly at the wrinkled man, I made a mental note to ask my mother why men and boys alike were difficult. Leading me up a shabby set of stairs, they pushed me into a small room. Racetrack stood outside the door while the other newsies left. Spot and Jack Kelly, the leaders, closed the door behind them as they entered. Finding a chair, I sat comfortably on it, propping my head in my hand. Giving them a bored look, I tried to assess my situation.

Out of the corners of my eyes, I could make out a small window, but too small for even me; I doubt even a short person could fit in it. There was only a miniature table and the chair; other wise the room was spartan. Taking a look back at the two men, I sorted together what I knew about them; Jack Kelly was the infamous strike leader, and the leader of the Manhattan Newsies, otherwise known as Francis Sullivan. He was a tall and muscular slightly tanned young man with a head full of golden brown hair. He seemed fond of his cowboy red bandana, which he wore around his neck. Spot, as far as I could tell was very egotistical and had history with Kelly; his also carried around an authoritive cane.

"Are you some kinda Indian?"

Snapping my head towards Jack Kelly, I sighed. _Was does everyone think I'm Indian? I'm not that dark._ Used to the question, I answered,

"What, are you some kind of genius? The answer is no to both questions."

A chuckle could be heard audibly from outside, and left a smile on my face. Although Jack looked slightly offended, I could tell that he was exaggerating; not a lot of things could wound a boy's pride. Spot, in an effort to be more serious, tapped his cane against the floor. Jack, noticed that the newsie king was agitated, and asked him,

"What are we'se goin' ta do wit hoir?"

"Don't know."

Pressing a hand to my head, I let out an exasperated sigh; _I seem to be doing a lot of that lately._

"Let me get this straight; you kidnap girls without thinking of why you're doing it?"

A blank look from both of them told me I had guessed correctly. Frowning I scoffed,

"Boys: can't live with them or pro-create with them."

They both gave me a confused look; I kept forgetting that the two young men were newsies. Jack turned Spot into a corner, and both bent their heads down. Whispering, so I couldn't hear, I impatiently tapped my foot. Getting up, I tried to open the window. Bringing my hands to the bottom to pull it up, they scraped the wall. Gasping in outrage, I noticed that the window was _painted _on the wall, by someone who was too cheap to pay for a real one. Resisting the urge to pound my head into the 'window', I noticed the whispers had stopped. Turning, I heard Jack clear his throat,

"We'se decided to ransom you'se."

"If yoah fadder wants ta see his loively daughtah again, he'll stop the papahboys from comin'."

Spot added in. Glancing at them both, I figured that would be the most logical thing to do. But Kelly had cleared his throat nervously again, stating,

"And we'se decided you'se stayin' wit Spot."

Spot gave the older boy a glare, saying in a deadly voice,

"We'se didn't discuss this, Cowboy."

Twiddling his thumbs idly, and not looking Spot in the eye, he offered,

"Well, you'se did pay rent already, Spot. I'se just makin' it easier foah everyone. Plus you'se got an extrah room and everythin'"

His jaw set, Spot gave Jack one last glare before spit-shaking him and causally throwing in,

"Whatevah. Just get out a' Brooklyn."

Tipping his imaginary hat at me, Jack Kelly bowed and left. Watching, I saw Racetrack and him leave with some other newsies; including the one that punched me and the eye-patch kid. I was actually very surprised not to find any Brooklyn newsies listening in on our conversation._Spot just made Jack Kelly leave, and Jack didn't argue. Who is this boy? _Why did every rush to find him as if he was some God? Racetrack even seemed to be asking his permission to beat me up on Brooklyn grounds. Turning back to Spot, I asked him,

"Why is everyone so afraid of you?"

Looking at me as if I had grown a second head, Spot looked at me in wonderment. Smirking at me, he said with a confident tone,

"I'se got a reputation."

Stifling a snort, I politely covered it up with a wheezy cough. Swallowing down the temptation of saying, "Really?", I waited for Spot to reveal the rest. _Odd, usually I'm more quiet. I suppose our clashing personalities bring this about; intelligent, polite, quiet, feminist, cowardly and opinionated. Pinned up against the foul newsie arrogance, pride, annoying, temperamental, courageous and sexist. _ Annoyed, Spot's face looked ticked off. Twirling his cane in his hand, he looked away from me and into the distance. Snapping at me,

"You ain't from New Yoik, are you'se?"

"No, I am not from New York, what gave it away?"

Looking back at me, he gave a superior smirk, stating,

"The fact you'se don't know who I'se is."

"Humor me."

Taking the chair, he swung it around and sat wide-legged on it. His arms were placed on the back of it, his head resting on them. Staring at me for a long time he seemed to be thinking on what to tell me. For a flicker of a moment, amusement rested in his eyes; but it soon left.

"Don't tink I will."

Frowning, I straightened my back and smoothed out my clothes. My long brown trousers were destroyed, mud and rips at the bottom. My usually spotless obsidian shoes had more than a couple of scuffs, most big and multi-colored. The hat I usually wore was stuffed in my coat pocket; therefore it had not been ruined. Changing the topic, because there was no doubt it was foolish to pursue the last one, I asked,

"What am I supposed to do?"

Waving his hand at me in a dismissive manner, he replied,

"Go clean somethin', o' cook."

_Ignore him; just let him be a sexist. _Pretending I hadn't heard him, so that I wouldn't snap, I asked cautiously,

"I don't suppose you have a book I could read?"

Scrunching his eyebrows together, he looked to be thinking. Giving me a wan smile, he nodded and headed out for a second. Signaling for another newsie to stand guard, he left my line of sight. The young boy that waited out the window had curly platinum blonde hair, that nearly blended in with his deathly pale skin. Facing me, his amber eyes stared blankly. Not seeing a reason to observe the newsie more than I had, I turned the other cheek.

"Heah. An' look, it's all minty too."

_It's in mint condition, you mean. _Taking the newspaper wrapped book from Spot, I peeled the layers away carefully. Spot sat down and waited for me, _What a gentleman, he even offered me the chair to sit in._ I thought sarcastically. After a couple of layers, I grew frustrated; the book had yet to be revealed. I was starting to suspect that it was a short book; the papers covering it were slowly thinning away. Finally, at the last layer, with paper strewn all over the floor, I ripped it away. _That little sneak!_

He hadn't even given me with a book, just a bunch of crumpled paper. Glaring in irritation, I proceeded to rip up all of the newspapers. A hand grabbed mine roughly, and it's owner said in a slightly amused tone,

"Darlin' you'se ruinin' me papes."

"But I have no need for these papers."

"Didn't you'se ask foah some readin' matoial, or sumtin?"

Sighing, I let go of the wripped paper, stating in a quiet tone,

"Yes, but I wished for a novel."

Snorting, he rudely exclaimed,

"You'se ain't tellin' me you'se tink some lowly newsies could affoid novels?"

Staring at my shoes, I felt a familiar feeling creep into my chest; _Pity._ Softly, I apoligized,

"I'm sorry."

Instead of laughing it off like I believed most jolly newsies would, I felt the air drop a few degrees. Surprise was written all over my face as I turned up to face Spot. His eyes had become shuttered, and turned a steely gray. His lips pressed in a fine line, he growled,

"You'se lucky I'se brought you'se sumtin to read."


End file.
